"Quite sure; Bernard endeavored to huddle the man out of the way lest the lie should be found out." "Famous!" The King had recovered his good-humor. "And to see the solemnity and conviction of the Holy Father when he heard the story." Again he exploded into laughter. "I must go tell the Queen. It is fun, it will put her in a passion." "And, Sire! about my people--my poor Welsh people?" "I will see to it. I will consider--what did I hear? You have brought your young child with you?" "Yes, Sire, he is without." "Let me see him--has he your beauty or Gerald's ugliness?" "Your Majesty shall judge." Nest went towards the door, but turned. "Oh, Sire, forget not my entreaty for my people." "Away--fetch the boy. I will think on it." Nest left the room. In the ante-chamber all present were in obvious consternation, pale, and dejected. She had left her little son with a servant, and she crossed the chamber. Then the Chancellor, who was present, came to her, drew her into the embrasure of a window, and spoke to her in awestruck tones. At his words her cheek blanched. "None dare inform him," said the Chancellor. "We have instructed the child. Suffer him to enter alone and tell the tale." For a moment Nest could not speak; something rose in her throat. She signed to the boy to come to her. "Do you know what to say?" "Yes, mother; that the _White Ship_----" "Cast yourself at the King's feet, tell him all; and when you have said the last words, 'The princes, thy sons, be dead; thy daughter also, she likewise is dead'--then pause and say in a loud voice, 'Remember Wales!'" The child was dismissed. He passed behind a curtain, then through the door into the royal presence. All without stood hushed, trembling with emotion, hardly breathing, none looking on another. Then, in the stillness, came a loud and piercing cry; a cry that cut to the hearts of such as heard it like a stiletto. In another moment Henry staggered forth, blanched, and as one drunk, with hands extended and lifted before his face, and in a harsh voice, like a madman's shriek, he cried: "It has come. The judgment of God! I am a dry and a branchless tree, blasted in the midst of life--blasted in the hour of victory." Then he reeled to a table, threw himself on his knees, laid his head on his hands, and burst into tears. None moved. None ventured near him. The Bishop of London was there--but he felt that no words of his were of avail now. So they stood hardly breathing, watching the stricken man, who quivered in the agony of his bereavement. Presently he lifted his face--so altered as to be hardly recognizable, livid as that of a corpse, and running down with tears. He turned towards Nest and said--"Go, woman, go--it shall be as thou hast desired. I am judged." What had occurred needs but a few words of explanation.